


Midnight in Paris (is a time for Love)

by orderlychaos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Kidnapping, M/M, Paris - Freeform, birthday shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Slowly, Clint Barton drifted back to consciousness.  There was a painful throbbing somewhere behind his eyeballs, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.  It was only a vague awareness of a lack of vodka leading to it that stopped him groaning out loud.  He shivered, the cracked concrete beneath him bitterly cold, particularly since he’d been stripped of his boots, t-shirt and leather jacket.  The last part pissed him off, because that leather jacket was his favourite.  Assholes.  Clint had no idea who had kidnapped him, at least beyond the dart full of sedative to the neck, but he was pretty damn sure they were assholes.</em>
</p>
<p>When Clint Barton and Phil Coulson get kidnapped on the eve of Clint's birthday, all Phil's careful plans are ruined.  Luckily, in the course of escaping, Phil might just gain something he's always wanted.  And Clint might get the best birthday present ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight in Paris (is a time for Love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts).



> Okay, so first of all, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RAIINING! I hope you enjoy this fic, darling <3
> 
> I used March 21 as Clint’s birthday, despite the fact that I think there are two different dates floating around for it? Also, I have never been to Paris, so I got most of my information from google. Sorry if it's wrong :(

Phil Coulson shivered slightly in the chill air as he glanced around the narrow, cobbled street.  Paris in March wasn’t the dark, cold of winter, but even the gentle thaw didn’t make much difference once the sun went down.  The streets were busy enough, though, with locals and tourists drifting between dinner and watching the sights of Paris.  Phil had always loved this part of the city.  It made him think of fairy tales and history come to life, with the old buildings squashed together and the twisting streets.

“Clint’s late,” a voice asked from right beside Phil’s elbow.  It was only a long association with Natasha Romanoff that stopped Phil jumping in fright.

Like Phil, Natasha was wrapped in her own sleek black coat, the collar turned up.  Her vibrant red hair was pulled back from her face, and there was an elegant scarf around her neck.  She’d been out shopping for most of the afternoon, and Phil was amused to see she was wearing a new pair of five-inch heels despite the cobbled street.  She looked gorgeous, young and fashionable.  Phil told her as much as he leaned down to kiss her cheek in greeting.

“You’re really sure you found the right date?” Natasha said suspiciously when Phil pulled back.

Phil arched an eyebrow.  “I’m going to pretend that isn’t an insult to my document finding skills,” he replied.  “I had to wade through twelve boxes of very, _very_ poorly sorted and mouldy documents.  Half of which appeared to be smeared with an unknown food product.”  Phil grimaced.  He’d had to shower three times to get the dust, grime and smell of that old basement off his skin afterwards.  “I promise you, I got the right date.”

Natasha took a deep breath and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.  “Sorry.  I’m not doubting you,” she said softly, turning to gaze up the street.  “I just…”

Phil nodded.  “I know.”

He and Natasha had been planning this for a long time.  Truthfully, it had been a struggle to get this far.  Clint hadn’t made it easy, although not exactly deliberately.  It had all started when Clint had found out that Natasha had never celebrated her birthday.  Phil had never exactly liked celebrating his, either.  As soon as that came up in conversation, Clint had insisted on throwing them both a party.  Every year since on both Natasha and Phil’s birthday, they did something nice.  It was usually quiet, sometimes only the three of them, but it was _always_ something either Natasha or Phil had always wanted.

Naturally, Phil and Natasha had wanted to reciprocate.

Yet, no matter how longingly Clint stared at other people’s parties, he’d remained stubbornly silent on the subject of his own.  So, Phil and Natasha had gotten sneaky.  Phil had ended up taking a weekend to fly down to Waverly, Iowa and search the basement of the old records building to find Clint’s birth certificate.  In the two months since, Phil and Natasha had planned carefully.  Phil had arranged a three-day stopover in Paris after a completed mission, and Natasha had booked them into a small, but very nice hotel.

Now all they needed was the birthday boy to actually show up.

Natasha glanced around the street and offered Phil a wry smile.  “We should have made sure someone was with him,” she said.  “If only to stop him being distracted by any local dogs.  Or taking another nap.”

Phil chuckled.  Clint’s ability to sleep anywhere at anytime was infamous at SHIELD.  It made sense for a sniper who was used to keeping erratic hours and staying focused for days at a time.  Although, it did sometimes lead to Clint rushing into briefings, hair going in all directions and his eyes only half open.  “He’ll be here,” Phil said.

Natasha eyed him.  “Are you ever going to tell Clint the truth about why you’re doing this?” she asked.

Frowning, Phil turned to her.  “I’m doing this because Clint is my friend and he deserves to be spoilt on his birthday,” he said firmly.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha took one of her hands out of her pockets to thump Phil on the arm.  “That’s not the whole story,” she said.

Phil sighed.  It wasn’t.  From the first time they’d met, Phil had been aware of just how exceptional Clint Barton really was.  His marksmanship skills alone were jaw-dropping, but Phil had only been _more_ impressed when he’d learned how much Clint worked to maintain them.  It didn’t hurt that Clint’s body reflected the hours he put into training, either.  His arms, shoulders and back were corded with muscle.  Clint’s eyes also had a way of changing with the light and his mood, turning anywhere from a bright, piercing blue to a murky hazel.  If Phil’s attraction to Clint had only been based on the fact that he was gorgeous, Phil might have shrugged it off years ago.  But it wasn’t.  Phil was drawn as much to Clint’s mind as anything else.  Clint was terrifyingly intelligent even though he tried to hide it, a smartass to his core and he had a sly sense of humour that always had Phil laughing.

Was it really any wonder Phil was in love with him?

Clint, of course, didn’t have a clue.  Phil was well practiced at keeping his feelings buttoned down, and it was only Nick who’d ever guessed at the depth of them.  Natasha herself had suspected, but it was only after Phil had gotten a little drunk that she’d learned the depth of Phil’s feelings.  Since then, she hadn’t stopped encouraging him to say something to Clint.

“I still don’t see why you won’t just ask him out on a date,” Natasha said, shooting Phil a pointed look.

Phil arched another eyebrow at her, because she was well aware of his reasons.  Strike Team Delta was one of the best teams Phil had ever been involved with, and he didn’t want to mess anything up.  “Probably for the same reasons you have yet to actually ask Agent Morse out to dinner,” he said.

Natasha scowled.  “I’m getting around to it,” she muttered.

Somewhere between the shots of vodka and waking up on Natasha’s couch, their working relationship had deepened into friendship.  As a result, he’d heard all about Natasha’s admiration and attraction to Bobbi Morse, and her reluctance to do anything about it.  Truthfully, Phil found it kind of nice that even superspies like the Black Widow found love difficult.  It gave him hope he might get his happy ending one day.

Beside them, light was spilling out onto the cobblestones from a small window.  Inside, the cozy restaurant was bustling.  Natasha glanced at it, and then back at Phil.  “I’ll go make sure the waiter holds our table,” she said.

“Of course,” Phil replied.  While he hadn’t given into his nerves -- yet -- he wanted this to be perfect just as much as Natasha did.

Nodding once, Natasha turned and ducked inside the restaurant.  Phil turned back to watch the street for Clint, but just as he did, he felt something sharp prick his neck.  Automatically, his hand flew up, and he felt the rasp of a small feathered dart against his fingers.  The street around him began to swim alarmingly in and out of focus.

Then everything faded to black.

~*~

Slowly, Clint Barton drifted back to consciousness.  There was a painful throbbing somewhere behind his eyeballs, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.  It was only a vague awareness of a lack of vodka leading to it that stopped him groaning out loud.  He shivered, the cracked concrete beneath him bitterly cold, particularly since he’d been stripped of his boots, t-shirt and leather jacket.  The last part pissed him off, because that leather jacket was his _favourite_.   _Assholes_.  Clint had no idea who had kidnapped him, at least beyond the dart full of sedative to the neck, but he was pretty damn sure they were assholes.

Grunting under his breath, Clint tried to figure out where he was.  His shoulders ached in counterpointed to his head, and something rough and scratchy covered his head.  It smelled _disgusting_.  When Clint tried to shift his arms, the stabs of pain through his shoulders told him that his arms had been bound tightly behind his back.

That probably wasn’t a good sign.

At least no one had gagged him this time.  Although, judging by the darkness when Clint opened his eyes, someone had put a bag over his head.  It would account for the smell.  Clint suppressed a shiver.  He _hated_ it when he couldn’t see.  Wriggling a little in an attempt to ease the pressure on his shoulders, Clint discovered his legs had been bound as tightly as his arms.  Getting free was going to be difficult.  Clint muttered a curse under his breath.  This was not how he’d planned his evening to go.

Cursing again, Clint tried to work out where he was.  It was mostly silent, but he could hear the soft sound of water slapping against wood.  Beyond the horrible smelling bag on his head, Clint could smell the faint scent of damp.  He found it hard to think past the throbbing in his head before his headache receded a little more.  From the sounds and the smells, Clint figured he was in some sort of warehouse or boathouse down on the river.  He just wasn’t sure how much that information actually helped him.  The last thing he remembered, he’d been on his way to meet Phil and Natasha at a restaurant for dinner, so there were clearly some gaps in his memory.  He _hated_ when that happened.  “Fuckers,” he muttered.  “I swear I’m going to start shooting people when I get out of this.”

“You said it, Barton,” a familiar dry, but slightly muffled voice said, surprising Clint.  He hadn’t realized anyone else was with him.

“Coulson?” Clint said.  If he strained, he could pick up the soft sound of Phil’s slow, steady breathing over the lapping water.  It was far more comforting than it probably should be.

Pushing himself up with his elbows, Clint ignored the way his head swam with pain and tried to focus on the direction of Phil’s breathing.  He winced as his bruises twinged.  It felt like someone had given him a good kick or five to the ribs while he was unconscious.  “So… I’m guessing you’re also tied up?” he said.

“Yes,” Phil replied.

Clint had to grin at the inherent frustration and irritation packed into that one word.  Phil was pissed, which spelled bad things for whoever was responsible for tying them up.  “Is it just us in here?” Clint asked.

“Yes,” Phil replied.  “Natasha doesn’t seem to be here.  I doubt we would still be tied up here if she was.”

“Huh,” Clint said. His mind was already working on ways to get out of their current mess, because this was hardly the first time this had happened.  “Okay.  I’m going to head over to you, Boss, so you want to keep talking to me?”

“Be careful,” Phil said.  As always, the genuine concern in his voice made warmth spread through Clint’s chest.  He could count the number of people who genuinely cared about him on one hand, and Clint would be forever grateful that Phil was one of them.  Clint would like to say he’d noticed how hot Phil was the first time they’d met, but that would be a lie.  Phil was remarkably good at getting people to underestimate him.  When Clint had first joined SHIELD, he’d been more concerned with finding escape routes and trying to figure out what his new bosses wanted.  Agent Coulson, yet another guy in a suit, had been kind of easy to ignore.

After their first mission, though, Clint had _noticed_.  He’d noticed a lot of things.  The competent way Phil moved, as if he knew exactly what his body could do.  The sharp way he kept everyone around him within sight.  The way that he’d looked beyond Clint’s attitude to what was underneath.  It didn’t take long for Clint to fall madly in lust, and then a little in love, which was a dangerous place to be for Clint.  It never ended well, but that didn’t stop his traitorous heart giving an extra thump every time Phil smiled at him.

Beginning an awkward wiggle in Phil’s direction, Clint was suddenly glad Phil couldn’t see him.  It was hardly his most graceful moment.  “You still there, Coulson?” he asked when Phil didn’t say anything else.

“Yes,” Phil said quietly.  “Sorry.  I think I may have a concussion.”

Inwardly, Clint grimaced.  Phil was one of the most stubborn people Clint had ever met -- and he was including himself in that assessment.  If Phil was admitting to a concussion, it probably meant his head was pretty damn sore.  “Does that mean you haven’t figured out a diabolical way for us to be getting out of here yet?” Clint said, keeping his tone teasing.

“The plan may currently be a work in progress,” Phil replied.

Suddenly, Clint’s questing hands hit something a lot warmer than the floor.  He could feel the bone of a knee underneath his fingers and the edge of a muscular thigh underneath rough denim.  “Hey, Boss, that you?” Clint said.

“I do believe you’ve found me, Hawkeye,” Phil replied dryly.

Clint rolled his eyes even though Phil wouldn’t be able to see him.  “And I gotta ask: are you wearing _jeans_?” he said.

Phil sighed audibly.  “I do actually own casual clothes, you know,” he muttered.  “I don’t understand why you insist on believing those stupid rumours.”

Wiggling closer, Clint began to feel his way up Phil’s thigh towards what he hoped would be either Phil’s arm or chest.  Unfortunately, with his hands still tied, Clint lost his balance and went tumbling.  He landed half on top of Phil and found his hands somewhere he hadn’t exactly intended them to go.  “Um, that’s not my leg anymore,” Phil said in a slightly strangled voice.

Clint shuddered at Phil’s warm breath on his skin, the press of his shoulder against Phil’s chest almost scalding.  He had to stop himself pressing even further into Phil’s side.  Phil’s skin was chill against his, and Clint could feel the small tremors going through him.  They needed to get out of these ties fast and away from the concrete floor so Clint could warm them both up.

“Sorry,” Clint muttered, torn between unrepentance and hating the idea at making Phil uncomfortable.

Levering himself back up, Clint continued his search for Phil’s arms.  This time, he made sure to keep his hands in safer territory just in case Phil felt like shooting him later.  When Clint’s hands hit Phil’s waist, Clint had to bite his lip.  An appreciative whimper wanted to slip out at the distinct feeling of _naked skin_.  Specifically _Phil’s_ naked skin.  Stilling his fingers, just in case they started wandering over Phil’s bare stomach, Clint tried to gather his wits again.  “Is there something you want to tell me, Coulson?” he said.

“Ah, yes,” Phil said, sounding slightly uncomfortable.  “The people that caught us might have stripped me of everything except my jeans.”

Clint’s brain went offline for a moment at that mental image.  He wasn’t sure whether to curse or bless his active imagination.  Settling next to Phil, Clint enjoyed the press of Phil’s warm shoulder and arm against his.  It might have been wrong, but Clint would be damned if he wasn’t going to take full advantage of the fact that both he and Phil were shirtless.  “Any idea who has us?” Clint said in an attempt to distract himself.  “My memories are a bit hazy, but the last thing I properly remember, I was half a block from our hotel.”

“I think we were drugged,” Phil said.  “It would definitely help to explain the memory loss.”

“Yeah,” Clint said with a sigh.  “I figured it was going to be something like that.”  He paused.  “Don’t think I didn’t notice your avoidance of the question, by the way.”

Phil huffed.  “I think it’s my fault,” he admitted.

Clint blinked.  “What?”

He heard Phil sigh.  “Two men came to check on us a little earlier.  From what I heard, they seem to be under the impression my name is Peter Cole, which is an old mission identity of mine.”  He paused, and when he spoke again, he sounded vaguely embarrassed.  “I think this is part revenge, part kidnapping for ransom.  Peter Cole was supposed to be quite wealthy.”

This close, the sound of Phil’s voice was strangely intimate.  Maybe it was because Clint couldn’t see him, or maybe because it reminded Clint of all the times Phil had sat on his ratty couch to share a pizza and watch TV.  Either way, it was damn distracting.  “So they have no idea they’ve kidnapped two highly-trained SHIELD agents?” he said.  Then another thought struck him.  “Wait, if they’re after a past mission identity of yours, why am I here?”

There was another embarrassed paused, before Phil sighed.  “They think you’re Peter Cole’s latest boy-toy,” he muttered.

Blinking, Clint wished he’d been able to see Phil’s face as he’d said that.  “I don’t know what’s better,” he said.  “The fact that you just said ‘boy toy’, or the idea of you parading around on that mission with a junior agent as arm candy.”

“It was Agent Triplett, actually,” Phil said.  “He was very professional.”

Clint ignored the spike of jealousy that went through him.  Trip was a great guy, and it wasn’t like Phil was his to be jealous over anyway.

Shifting his shoulders and ignoring the flare of pain, Clint tried to see if there was any give in the electrical ties binding him.  There wasn’t.  “Ugh,” he said.  “Have I ever told you, Coulson, how much I _hate_ being kidnapped?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice in the past, yes,” Phil said, amusement back in his voice.

“And bags over my head,” Clint added.  “Particularly when they stink like this one.  Why is it that bad guys never use clean bags?”

Shaking his head, Clint attempted to shift the bag a little.  He muttered a curse of relief when he managed to dislodge the it enough to suck in a breath of significantly cooler air.  His face was probably all red and sweaty.

“Hold still a minute, Barton,” Phil said suddenly, sounding very close.  “I have an idea.”

“What kind of…?” Clint began to ask, only to trail off abruptly when he felt the brush of a stubbled cheek again his jaw.  He barely managed to bite back the gasp when he realized what Coulson was trying to do.

Just in case he gave into his impulses and plastered himself against Phil, Clint kept as still as he could.  He choked a little as Phil’s lips grazed the skin of his cheek before Coulson managed to grab the edge of the bag in his teeth.  Or at least, Clint imagined that was what he was doing.  He certainly wasn’t imagining anything else.  Nope.  Not at all.

Together and with a little bit of a struggle, they managed to drag the bag off Clint’s head.  For a moment he kept his eyes closed, sucking in deep breaths of cool air.  Thankfully, the room was only dimly lit when Clint opened his eyes to look around, only a sliver of moonlight coming in through the grimy windows.  He’d been right in his guess -- they had definitely been dumped in a warehouse by the river.

Shifting his gaze back to Phil, Clint had to bit his lip to stop any sounds that might give his thoughts away.  A black bag half-covered Phil’s head, and his ankles and arms appeared to be tied with electrical cable ties.  Of course, what had distracted Clint so badly was the view of Phil Coulson without a shirt.  Phil might not have been as ripped or bulky as some of the other field agents, but the chest on view was still something worth staring at.  His skin was pale, and Clint’s fingers itched to reach out and touch.  Phil’s stomach was finally going a little soft, conceding to age and the hours he spent behind a desk, but it didn’t make Phil any less gorgeous.  Clint could also see the scars interspersed on Phil’s skin, some old and some newer.  Phil had told Clint some of the stories, and for a moment, Clint imagined tracing the others with his fingers and asking Phil about them.

“Clint?” Phil asked softly, and even under the bag, his head turned to look at Clint.

Clint swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.  “Right,” he said, shaking his head.  “Sorry.”

He glanced around the small warehouse again in case he’d missed something when he’d been too busy looking at Phil, but there was nothing.  Turning back to Phil, he leaned in close.  “Hold still a minute,” he muttered.

“Clint?” Phil said.  “What are you doing?”

Barely an inch from Phil’s face, even hidden by the bag as it was, Clint grinned.  “Getting the bag off your head?” he said.  “Unless you’d like to keep it on?”

Phil coughed, his voice slightly hoarse when he spoke.  “If you can manage it, I would be grateful,” he said.

“Right.”  Clint shifted again, ending up pressed against Phil’s shoulder and side.  He blinked when Phil immediately tensed at the contact before he relaxed again.  That was probably because Phil didn’t like being touched when he couldn’t see, right?  “Just hold still for a sec,” Clint warned.

Using his teeth, Clint gently pulled the blindfold off.  It was a lot quicker now that Clint could see.  He spat out the sour tasting fabric, trying really hard not to think of where else that bag might have been, and glanced over at Phil.  Then he grinned.  His usually put-together handler was flushed and his hair was sticking up at odd angles.  It was strangely adorable.

“Thank you,” Phil said quietly.

Clint nodded, pasting a smirk on his face.  “Sure,” he said.  “So you got an ass-kicking plan, yet?”

“Not exactly,” Phil replied, “but step one has definitely got to be getting out of here.  You don’t happen to still have a knife anywhere, do you?”

Clint raised his eyebrows, incredulous.  “Where exactly do you think I’m still hiding a knife?” he said, doing his best to indicate his half-dressed state with his eyes.

Phil’s ears went pink and he glanced away.  “You have been known to keep knives in your underwear before,” he replied dryly dryly.

Clint grinned, because he was pretty sure Phil had just checked him out.  “Sorry, Boss, I’m going commando today,” he said.  “I forgot to do laundry before we left.”

Phil sighed.  “Well, I guess that means we can’t use that plan,” he muttered.

Rolling his eyes, Clint huffed.  “Hey, Coulson, have you thought about maybe keeping a knife in _your_ underwear?” he teased, mostly because he could.

“No… I…” Phil stammered, before he glared at Clint.  Curiously, the tips of his ears went pink again.  “You’re not as amusing as you think you are.”

Clint smirked.  “Yes, I am,” he countered.  “Besides, we don’t actually need any potential knives hidden in underwear.  They completely missed the one in my belt.”

Phil arched an eyebrow, his gaze dropping down towards Clint’s stomach.  “In the buckle?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed.  “Natasha always gets me the _best_ presents.”

There was a moment of silence before Phil looked up.  “You’re going to have to shift to your left and turn if you want me to reach that,” he said.

Carefully, they maneouvered themselves so that Phil’s back and bound hands were facing Clint.  Phil was close enough that his fingers could actually brush Clint’s chest, and Clint shivered.  He had to bite his lip to hold back a soft whimper as Phil slid his hands down Clint’s stomach towards his belt.  Sucking in a breath, Clint was grateful Phil couldn’t see his face.  Phil’s touch was _doing_ things to Clint that were entirely inappropriate for the situation.  When Phil’s fingers hit his belt, Clint bit down harder on his lip.  Now was _so_ no the time to be thinking about other situations where Clint had imagined Phil going for his belt buckle.  Phil fumbled for a second, before he slid the knife out of its hiding place.

“Got it,” Phil said.

Phil made short work of the electrical ties binding him, even though he couldn’t see what he was doing.  It made Clint grin, because damn if Phil wasn’t competent.  And a badass.  As soon as Phil was free, he shook out his arms and shoulders with a hiss, trying to encourage blood flow back into his limbs.  Clint didn’t think they’d been tied up long enough for mobility to be a problem.  It was probably just going to hurt like a fucker.  “Sorry, almost there,” Phil muttered, bending to slice through the ties holding his legs.

Completely untied, Phil turned so that he could do the same to Clint.  Phil was a warm presence at Clint’s back, solid enough even though they weren’t touching.  Clint shivered as Phil’s hand trailed down his arm, letting Clint know where he was.  A few seconds later, Clint let out a sigh of relief as his wrists were suddenly free.  He rolled his shoulders, cursing under his breath as the aching started.  It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable, either.  Phil cut through the ties on Clint’s ankles and then slowly climbed to his feet.  Clint gave himself a minute before he tried, knowing from experience that taking a nose dive onto concrete wasn’t pleasant.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting Phil’s offer of a hand to his feet.  “So now what, Boss?”

Phil shot him a dry look.  “Now we get out of here, Hawkeye,” he replied.  He nodded to the other side of the boathouse.  “You want to take that side, while I take this one?”

“Sure,” Clint agreed, but he waved away the gesture when Phil tried to hand him back the knife.  “You keep it for now.”

“Thanks,” Phil said quietly before he turned and headed for the opposite end of the boathouse to look for a way out.

Clint allowed himself one lingering look at Phil’s ass in his jeans, and then turned to do the same.

~*~

Blinking, Phil found himself standing on a small dock near the Seine.  The boathouse was in what looked like one of Paris’ less privileged neighbourhoods.  It must have been fairly late at night, because there didn’t seem to be anyone about, for which Phil was grateful.  Shivering, he ducked back inside the boathouse to see if Clint had come up with anything they could use.  Even in the middle of the night, Phil doubted it was a good idea to be running around Paris barefoot and shirtless.  Particularly since his teeth were beginning to chatter with cold.  “Did you find anything?” he whispered quietly when one of the shadows slunk away from the opposite wall.

Clint snorted, stepping into a small patch of light.  He was carrying a bundle in his arms, but Phil couldn’t make out what it was.  “These guys aren’t very good,” he said, a trace of derision in his voice.  “They left all of our clothes and my knives in the small _unlocked_ room over there.”  He glanced over at Phil and winced slightly.  “I think they made off with your gun, though.  It wasn’t in the pile.”

“I wasn’t carrying it,” Phil said, and Clint shot him a sharp glance.  He smiled wryly.  “It was supposed to be a dinner between friends, Clint.  Not a mission.”  He didn’t add that the whole reason they were in Paris in the first place was for fun, not SHIELD.

Frowning, Clint looked like he wanted to ask another question, but when Phil shivered again, Clint seemed to shake off the thoughts.  “Here,” he said, walking closer.  He handed Phil his clothes from earlier with a small smile.  “You were wearing the cashmere sweater Natasha bought you.  I thought you only wore that when things were fancy?”

Phil swallowed, but tried not to let it show.  “And a dinner out with you can’t be special?” he replied, hoping Clint wouldn’t delve too deeply into his reasons.  This wasn’t exactly the location Phil wanted to confess his plans about Clint’s birthday.  Sadly, most of them were likely ruined now.  Or just not possible while hiding from the people after Peter Cole.

Gratefully, Phil started pulling on his undershirt and white button down as Clint eyed him.  “Don’t think I don’t know you’re up to something, Coulson,” Clint said.  “I know what you look like when you get sneaky.”

Phil rolled his eyes.  “How about we talk about it when we’re out of here?” he said, bending down to pull on his socks and shoes.

Shrugging, Clint nodded.  “We should probably try calling Natasha anyway.”

Phil nodded, but the relief of finally having layers between his skin and the cold air distracted him.  Shivering, he pulled on his sweater.  When Phil glanced up again, Clint had pulled on his own black henley, and shoved his feet into his boots.  Slipping his final knife into its hiding place, Clint grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on.  “You know, I’ve been wondering -- if they didn’t know we were SHIELD, why strip us of our clothes?”

“Humiliation, probably,” Phil replied.  “Or at least to keep us vulnerable.  Psychologically, it’s a good way to keep your victims off-balance until you get what you want.”  He smiled faintly as Clint rolled his eyes.

“Unless you’re stupid enough to kidnap two SHIELD agents,” Clint muttered.

Phil arched an eyebrow.  “Yes, well no one in the world manages to get kidnapped quite as much as you, Barton,” he said dryly.

“Shut up,” Clint grumbled.  “I had a look around that room, but naturally, the one thing I didn’t find in the pile were our wallets or phones.”  He slid his eyes to Phil’s again.  “You think our kidnappers are figuring out who they’re dealing with yet?”

Outside, Phil heard the distinct screech of tyres as a car pulled up, followed by slamming doors and shouts in French.  He shot Clint a glare.  “You just had to say that, didn’t you?” he grumbled.

“This way,” Clint whispered.  “There’s a window.”

Phil nodded once and followed, slipping on his coat.  The voices outside got louder as whoever had arrived got closer to the door Phil had peered out of earlier.  He heard a string of cursing in French as they saw the broken lock, and then Clint was tugging his arm.  The window wasn’t large, but it would be enough to fit them if they went one at a time, and the catch was broken.  Clint went first, slipping forward on cat-like feet.  He somehow managed to open the swinging window and lift half his body into the gap in one movement.  Phil followed behind, not nearly as gracefully, and just managed to close the window before the men burst into the boathouse.

Ducking down, Phil let Clint pull him behind the shadowy bulk of an old boat.  Inside the boathouse, Phil saw lights as the men searched with flashlights.  “Well?” Clint breathed in his ear.  Phil bit back a shiver, both at Clint’s solid presence pressing against his shoulder and the brush of warm sit against his skin.  “My French never was very good.”

“They know I’m not Peter Cole,” Phil whispered back.  “But they don’t seem to know much more.  Mostly, they just seem pissed off we’re not there.”  He shifted so he could glance at Clint.  “Did you have any SHIELD ID in your wallet?”

Clint shook his head.  “No, but it pretty much all says Clint Barton.”

Phil rested a hand on Clint’s arm, trying to ease the grim expression on Clint’s face.  After how ruthlessly Clint had guarded his real name while SHIELD was chasing him, Phil could understand his distress.  “We’ll get it back,” Phil told him, “but we should contact Natasha first.  I can have a clean up team sent in later.”

Clint nodded.  Glancing at the boathouse, Clint gestured over his shoulder.  “This way,” he said.

Clint led him on a twisting path in and out of the shadows, winding their way further away from the boathouse.  The shouts behind them got quieter as they went, and Phil breathed out a sigh of relief when they came to a stop on a street corner about a mile from the river.  Clint glanced at him.  “Should we find a payphone?” he asked.

Phil shook his head.  “They all need a card these days,” he said.  “If we wait until the morning we might be able to steal something.  And the tourist crowds will give us a better cover if there’s anyone still looking.”

Clint nodded, but his eyes glinted with amusement.  “I thought no picking pickets outside of an authorized SHIELD mission was a rule of yours?” he teased.

Phil found himself smiling back.  “I also made an exception for kidnappings,” he said, “but I’m sure we can find another way…”

“Hey,” Clint cut in.  “I never said I didn’t want to.”  Then his face turned more serious.  “Come on.  I know a place we can go and rest a few hours until dawn.”  His mouth twisted wryly.  “This isn’t the first time I’ve been on the run in Paris.”

Phil nodded, because he’d picked up as much from some of Clint's stories.  Natasha had filled in a few of the other details.  It was one of the reasons they had planned to celebrate Clint’s birthday in Paris in the first place.  To let him explore the city the way he wanted to for once.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean for the evening to turn out like this.”

“I know,” Clint said nudging him in the shoulder.  “It’s not your fault.  You couldn’t have known.  You’re not actually omnipotent like the junior agents think.”

Flashing Phil a smile, Clint glanced around the streets and started heading down  narrow lane to their left.  Silently, Phil vowed to make it up to him anyway, and followed.

~*~

Clint was actually impressed the old metro train car was still there, even after five years.  Yet it still sat faithfully under the old bridge near the boarded up tunnel, rusted out and covered in graffiti.  A couple of homeless men were gathered around a fire in a barrel thirty feet away, but other than that, they were alone.  Hopefully it would stay that way.

“It’s not much,” he told Phil, turning slightly.  “But it’s better than a doorway and it’ll keep us out of sight.”

Phil smiled reassuringly, but Clint still couldn’t stop himself eyeing Phil’s nice coat and cashmere sweater.  He knew better than most what Phil was capable of, but Phil still deserved fancy hotel rooms and soft sheets.  Not rusted out abandoned train cars and the company of an old carnie with blood on his hands.

Phil nudged him.  “Stop it,” he said.  “I’ve slept in far worse places.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to,” Clint replied, because he’d apparently lost control of his tongue.

The smile Phil sent him was abashed and far more adorable than a grown man should be.  “You either,” he said.  “Just because you’ve done this before, Clint, doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Not really sure what to say to that, Clint ducked his head and climbed up into the train car.  It wasn’t exactly comfortable inside, but there was a large bench seat down the back that would hold them.  He stepped aside as Phil climbed up behind him, and pointed to the bench.  “It’ll be a tight fit, but we could probably share.  We’ll be warmer that way, but…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Phil interrupted.  “Of course we’ll share.  We’ve done it before.”

He had a point, but Clint also tried really hard not to think about those times unless he was alone in the dark of night.  Being wrapped up in Phil’s arms was too close to what he longed for to think about for too long.  “Sure,” he agreed.

Heading for the bench seat, Clint pulled off his jacket, intending to use it as a makeshift pillow.  Anything to help the next few hours be a little more comfortable.  Phil slipped off his coat, and somewhat awkwardly, they both arranged themselves back to back on the seat.  Phil’s back was a warm line against Clint’s, but the bench was hard and cold beneath him.  He couldn’t help but shiver at the cold draft numbing his legs, Phil's coat not quite enough to cover them.

Finally, Clint huffed, rolling over slightly to stare up at the roof.  “So much for…” he muttered, trailing off because he wasn’t really sure he wanted to finish that sentence out loud.  He wasn’t even sure what had made him have that thought.

Behind Clint, Phil shifted, the coat gaping for a moment and Clint shuddered.  Then Phil’s arm wound around his waist, pulling him back against Phil’s warm chest.  The heat sank in through Clint’s clothes and he shivered again, even as part of his brain locked every touch away in his memory.

“So much for what?” Phil whispered when Clint didn’t continue.

Clint sighed.  Did he really want to tell Phil the truth?  Making a face up at the ceiling, Clint debated with himself for a moment, but ultimately, he found it hard to keep secrets around Phil.  “So much for enjoying my birthday this year,” he finished.

Phil shifted again, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of Clint’s expression.  Clint didn’t move, instead just staring up at the roof of the metro car.  Hope, bitterness and the ever-present sadness tangled in Clint’s chest, the ache familiar after all these years.

“Today is your birthday?” Phil asked quietly.

“Maybe?” Clint said.  He blew out a sigh.  “I don’t actually know, okay?  I just remember it was sometime over the next few days, but Barney and the circus weren’t exactly big on those kinds of celebrations.”

Muttering a curse in what Clint was pretty sure wasn’t English, Phil propped himself up on an elbow.  The coat gaped again at the movement, and Clint glared reproachfully, but Phil was undeterred.  At this angle, even Clint’s eyes couldn’t see Phil’s face in the darkness.  All the same, Clint could easily imagine the sadness etched across Phil’s familiar features.  “It’s not, actually,” Phil said.  “Your birthday.  Not quite, anyway.”

Clint swallowed, his breath freezing in his lungs.  “What?”

Phil let out a long sigh.  “Your birthday is on the twenty-first of March,” he said softly.  “At least, according to the only birth certificate I could find.”

Clint stiffened, hope and anger burning through him in a rush.  He rolled over and shoved Phil, sending Phil sprawling onto his back.  Clint glared down at Phil, ignoring the way a shaft of moonlight had cut across Phil’s face, highlighting Phil’s wide and defiant eyes.  “You went looking for my birth certificate?” Clint demanded, not sure whether he wanted to curse at Phil for daring, or thank him for trying.

Phil nodded.  “You never mentioned it, and…”  He tilted his chin upwards, just like he did before he started delivering ultimatums to smugglers and thugs.  “Natasha and I just assumed you never knew.  After everything you’ve done for us, we wanted to do something for you.”

Clint swallowed, shutting his eyes.  “Shit, Phil,” he muttered.

Sagging back down to the bench, his anger forgotten, Clint let his head fall to Phil’s shoulder.  He pressed his face into the soft fabric of Phil’s sweater and breathed in the clean, familiar scent of him.  Phil’s hand stroked down Clint’s back once, before Phil carefully tucked the coat back around them again.  “I know it was an intrusion,” Phil said softly.  “But Natasha and I couldn’t bear the thought that you wanted to celebrate, but you couldn’t.”

Clint was the luckiest bastard in the universe.  He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, ignoring the prickle of tears.  “Thank you,” he whispered raggedly.  He raised his head, blinking down at Phil.  “Shit, that’s what this is all about.  That’s why you feel so guilty about missing dinner.”

Phil stared at at him before smiling faintly.  “It’s one of the reasons, yes,” he admitted.  “We were going to take you around Paris.  Museums, galleries, patisserie.  Wherever you wanted to go.”  Phil sighed, his chest rising and falling beneath Clint’s palm.  “Things we probably can’t do now that someone is looking for Peter Cole.  I’m sorry.”

Clint didn’t like the wry twist to Phil’s mouth, or the shadows in his gaze that Clint could see even in the moonlight.  “Hey, Phil, don’t.  You and Nat wanted to try,” he said, swallowing down the twisting feeling in his chest.  “That makes it one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.”

Phil huffed, the sound distinctly unhappy.  “Clint, you should really raise your expectations.”

Clint chuckled.  “Yeah, maybe.”

He lapsed into silence, snuggling closer to Phil.  Phil was warm and didn’t object, so Clint was going to take everything he could get.  This wasn’t quite how he’d imagined it, when he actually let himself, but Clint wasn’t going to deny himself spending a night in Phil’s arms.  He’d wished for it for too long.

“Sleep, Clint,” Phil said, a hand stroking soothingly down Clint’s back again.  “I’ll keep watch for a bit.”

Humming, Clint decided it couldn’t hurt to take a nap.  It would at least help with the lingering effects of the sedatives from earlier.  Snuggling even closer, he gave in to sleep, trusting Phil to watch over him.

~*~

Blinking awake, Phil yawned and fought a grimace as his entire body started protesting.  His joints ached from both the cold and the hard surface he was lying on, but at least his head was resting on something soft.  If Phil had to guess, he’d say it was Clint’s thigh.  Phil was pretty sure he’d gone to sleep with his arm around Clint, but he also vaguely remembered waking up at one point as Clint shifted around.

He glanced up to find Clint sitting up, huddled in his leather jacket.  Clint’s gaze was fixed on the other end of the metro car.  With the beginnings of stubble on his jaw and his messy hair, Clint looked mean enough to survive on the streets.  In comparison, Phil probably looked as out of place as he felt.

When Clint glanced down at him,  Phil arched an eyebrow.

Clint smiled.  “A guy came in two hours ago,” he whispered in explanation.  “He’s keeping to himself, but I didn’t want to take any chances.”

“Thank you,” Phil told him.  He’d always be grateful Clint considered him worth protecting.

Clint shrugged, but his gaze skittered away from Phil’s, just like it did every time he felt uncomfortable.

“Do you need any more sleep?” Phil asked him.

“Nah,” Clint said.  “I’m good.”

Now that he was more awake, Phil’s stomach reminded him how hungry he was.  And how much he wanted a coffee.  They’d never gotten that dinner, and glancing at his watch, Phil saw it was a little after eight.  Clint smiled, before he glanced away to scan for threats.  “If you promise not to question my methods, I’ll get you something for breakfast,” he said quietly.

Phil smiled back.  “I promise,” he said, “but we should probably call Natasha before any breakfast thievery.”

Clint made a face.  “You make it sound like I have a death wish,” he muttered.  “ _Of course_ we call Natasha first.  We can get breakfast while we wait for her to come get us.”

Chuckling, Phil sat up and reached out to smooth down a lock of hair that was standing out from Clint’s head.  This early in the morning and with Clint’s warmth still lingering around him, it was hard for Phil to remember not to touch.  “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

“Come on, then,” Clint said, nodding his head to the city outside the metro car.  “Let’s go.”

Half an hour later, Phil led the way through the morning crowd of tourists on Avenue de New York, which seemed rather appropriate.  The Eiffel Tower soared high on the other side of the Seine, imposing and impressive.  Heading to one of the closer tourist precincts to contact Natasha probably would have been easier.  Only, Phil hadn’t been able to resist bringing Clint to at least _see_ the Eiffel Tower.  As Clint stared, Phil spotted a businessman in a designer suit rudely push past a group of women.  It didn’t take more than thirty seconds to accidentally bump into the man and lift the cell phone from his jacket pocket.  Hanging out with spies and assassins definitely had its advantages.

“I saw that,” Clint said quietly, coming up behind him as Phil stepped out of the way of the crowds.

Phil offered him a smirk as he dialled the number of Natasha’s burner phone.  As it rang in it his ear, Phil scanned his gaze over the people around them, but no one seemed to be paying them particular attention.  A few seconds later, the phone connected.  “Natasha?” Phil said.

There was a beat of silence.  “Where the hell are you, Phil?” Natasha asked in a low voice.

“Safe, for the moment, and mobile,” Phil replied.  “I have Clint right next to me and neither of us are hurt aside from a few bruises.”  He shrugged slightly.  “I don’t think the guys that grabbed us are professionals.”

Natasha blew out a soft sigh.  “Okay,” she said.  “Do you know what happened?  All I saw was a battered white van pulling you inside, but it was gone before I could get to the door of the restaurant.”

“As far as I can tell,” Phil said.  “We were kidnapped by associates of Marcus O’Reilly.  He’s mostly a small time importer of expensive and rare goods.  I met him on a mission about a year ago, under the name Peter Cole.  I think his business partner might bear a little bit of a grudge after what happened.”

Clint raised both eyebrows.  “A little bit of a grudge?” he echoed.  “I’d hate to see what happens when they really get pissed off.”

Phil rolled his eyes.

“At least you’ll have a fun story to tell Jasper,” Natasha said, amusement clear in her voice.  “He’s en route with a team of junior agents for clean up.”  Natasha hummed thoughtfully.  “Do you need pick up?”

Phil glanced at Clint.  Part of him wanted to say no, that they could handle it.  Except, Clint’s actual birthday was tomorrow, and Phil wanted to be somewhere safe to celebrate it.  “That’s probably a good idea,” he said.  “Where do you want to meet?”

“If you can get to the Madeleine metro station in two hours, I’ll find you,” Natasha said.

“We’ll be there,” Phil told her.

Natasha hung up and Phil followed suit.  He glanced around at the crowds of tourists before carefully wiping the stolen phone and dropping it behind a nearby tree.  Beside him, Clint stiffened, clearly spotting something Phil hadn’t.  “What is it?” Phil asked.

“It could be nothing,” Clint said, “but does that guy on your left look like he’s searching for someone?”

Phil turned in the direction Clint indicated, immediately catching sight of a tall man in a rumpled coat pushing through the crowd.  The man was clearly searching for something.  “Definitely time to go,” Phil agreed.

Clint nodded once and reached out to grab Phil’s arm.  Phil let himself be led, and they headed away from the Eiffel Tower and the bulk of the tourists.  Clint walked briskly, fluidly dodging around people and kept Phil close.  The way his hard blue eyes scanned the crowd and the tension in his body told Phil he was searching for anything else out of place, but so far they seemed safe.  If these were the same men as last night, they weren’t the highly skilled professionals Clint and Phil were used to eluding.

Carefully, Clint guided them away from down one of the smaller, quieter streets away from the main avenue.  Apartment buildings rose up on both sides, and trees dotted the sidewalk.  Risking a glance behind them, Phil scanned the street, but couldn’t see anyone following them.  Ducking around a corner, Phil smiled at the small group of giggling Japanese tourists as they passed.  Behind them were a group of American men, some of them looking a little drunk, and Clint effortlessly stepped around them as well.  Phil didn’t miss the way Clint kept himself between the men and Phil the whole time.

“There should be a metro station about a block from here,” Phil said quietly.

“Yeah,” Clint said, shooting him a look.  “I remember.”

Clint’s shoulders relaxed a fraction as they wove around several parked cars and another group of tourists with an artful grace.  Pausing for a minute, Clint gave the street another probing look, and glanced at Phil.  “We’ve lost them for the moment,” he said.  “Any idea where we’re taking the metro to?”

“Natasha said she’s going to meet us at Madeline station in two hours,” Phil replied.

“Right,” Clint said.  “So I guess my plan to head for the Bahamas won’t work?”

Phil smiled.  “I’m not sure we can take the train all the way there,” he said.  “But maybe for your birthday next year.”

Clint ducked his head.  “Cool,” he muttered.

Nodding, Phil started heading for the metro station.  Clint caught his hand before he could get very far, tugging him in close and pulling him towards the corner of a nearby building.  Phil blinked, trusting Clint to lead them out of trouble.  “What’s going on?” he asked as Clint crowded him back against the stone wall.

“That guy is back and heading down the street,” Clint whispered back.  “So I’m taking a leaf out of Nat’s distraction handbook.”

Before Phil could ask what exactly that meant, Clint shifted forward.  He tugged Phil forward by the edges of Phil’s open coat, and kissed him.  It was little more than a gentle press of lips, but even so, the touch sent Phil’s heart hammering against his ribs.  He’d been so careful at keeping his feelings locked away, at not letting Clint see, that it had never occurred to Phil that Clint might be doing the same.  That Clint might feel even a fraction of what was bubbling up in Phil’s chest.  Suddenly, Natasha words of encouragement made far more sense.

Pulling Clint in before he lost his courage, Phil kissed Clint liked he wanted to do almost since they’d met.  Clint arched towards him, uttering a little breathless hum as he sank against Phil.  In response, Phil deepened the kiss, helpless against the hunger that flared between them, hot and bright.  This might be his only chance to kiss Clint like he’d longed to, and Phil poured all his emotions into it.  One of his hands slid up into Clint’s hair as the other slid around Clint’s waist.  Having Clint in his arms felt _right_ in a way Phil had not imagined was possible, and he wanted to keep it -- and Clint -- forever.

Finally, Clint pulled away with a low groan, the sound sending a shiver down Phil’s spine.  Clint was panting a little, staring at Phil with wide eyes, but there was a bright spark of something Phil couldn’t identify growing in his eyes.  It almost looked liked hope.

“I, uh, think he’s gone,” Clint said softly, his voice rough.

Phil nodded.  “Right,” he said.  He wanted to say more, to bring up the fact that the kiss hadn’t felt much like a distraction or cover, but now was not the time nor place.  They could do that later, when they were safe -- and Phil had a way of pinning Clint down if he tried to run.  “I guess that’s our cue to leave, then.”

Clint swallowed and nodded, stepping all the way back.  “After you, Boss,” he said.

“Okay,” Phil agreed, even as he promised himself he was definitely going to track Clint down later and talk, just like he’d promised Natasha.

He might just get his happy ending after all.

~*~

After their evening adventures, getting to Natasha was pretty anticlimactic.  Clint and Phil had spent most of the metro trip silent, making sure no one was following them.  Well, that was what Phil had mostly done.  Clint had kept watch and slowly drowned in the awkwardness of kissing Phil.  What had he been thinking?  Kissing Phil in the middle of a mission might have plausible deniability, but it hadn’t exactly been a life or death situation.  Clint had given into impulse and opportunity and kissed Phil anyway, and now he was probably going to pay for it.

As promised, Natasha was there to meet them when they got to Madeleine station, roaring up in a big, black car.  “Get in,” she called out, the corner of her mouth lifting up in a smile.

Clint did as she commanded, eager to put the whole kidnapping behind him.  He was definitely ready to sleep in a real bed, no matter how nice Phil’s arms had been wrapped around him.  He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that.  Not here.

Phil climbed into the back, and Natasha pulled out smoothly into the traffic.  Not exactly with a squeal of tyres, but close.  Natasha didn’t drive sedately, even when not in danger.

“Jasper’s got a team rounding up your kidnappers,” Natasha said when she was certain they weren’t being followed.  “You were right -- they’re not professionals.”

“Great,” Clint said, letting his head fall back against the seat.

He caught the questioning glance Natasha directed at Phil via the rearview mirror.  “I told him,” Phil admitted quietly in reply.  “He knows about our plans for his birthday.”

Natasha shot him a glance.  “I’m sorry we failed, Clint,” she said.

Clint smiled, and it wasn’t even a struggle.  “It’s okay,” he said, suddenly exhausted.  “But I might hold you to the Bahamas thing next year.”

He dozed as Phil told Natasha what had happened, only blinking awake when Natasha parked the car.  He frowned, but the building outside the window looked a lot like all the other ones Clint had passed in Paris.  “Safehouse,” Natasha answered his unasked question.  “Fury wants us to hole up here for a while before we get a ride out.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, swallowing his disappointment.  “Right.”

Natasha shrugged, but she did reach out a hand to cover Clint’s briefly.  “We left most of your presents in New York, anyway,” she said.

Clint blinked again.  “Wait, what?”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha climbed out of the car, so Clint turned around to glare at Phil.  Shaking his head, Phil smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.  “You didn’t really think we wouldn’t spoil you now that we have the chance, did you?”

Still gaping, Clint stared helplessly at Phil.  He wasn’t sure anyone had spoiled him in his life, but he wasn’t going to complain if Phil and Natasha wanted to.  “Come on,” Phil said, gesturing to where Natasha was now waiting impatiently outside the car.  “I think I want a shower, and then maybe that breakfast you promised me.”

Clint followed them up to the small apartment on the top floor, just as eager to grab a shower as Phil was.  And food sounded pretty good too.

Half an hour later, Clint stepped out of the bathroom with a towel tightly wrapped around his waist.  The shower had helped calm his thoughts, and he was resigned now to whatever talk Phil would want to have about the kiss.  He wasn’t quite ready to bring it up, even though his stomach was twisting with the nerves of waiting.  Despite it all, he was still tempted to just go to Phil and get him to put those strong arms around Clint.  He wanted to pretend everything would be okay, if only for a little while.  It was a little messed up, but ultimately, Clint trusted Phil, trusted _in_ Phil, and was more than a little in love with him.  That wasn’t going to change any time soon.

He looked up when Natasha stepped into the room, holding what looked like Clint’s duffle bag.  “I grabbed it from the hotel,” she said.  “I thought you’d want some clothes.”

“Thanks, Nat,” Clint said gratefully.

Eyeing Natasha when she took a seat on the bed, Clint crossed his arms a little self-consciously across his chest.  “Phil’s in the kitchen, making coffee,” she said.

“Okay,” Clint drawled, not sure where she was going with this.

Natasha rolled her eyes.  “You know, most adults actually say things when they have _feelings_ ,” she muttered.

Clint glared.  “Nat, I don’t…”

“Oh, please.”  Natasha’s answering look dared Clint to deny it.  “Don’t even try it.”

Narrowing his eyes, Clint tried to calculate the odds that Natasha would actually leave this alone.  “I could always bring up your attempts at a love life, you know,” he said.

“You could,” Natasha replied.  “Or you could just listen to me for once.  Why are you so against admitting you like Phil?”

Clint sighed, coming to sit beside Natasha on the bed.  “It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it’s not easy, _little hawk,_ ” Natasha replied, using her favourite Russian nickname for him.  “But don’t you think it’s worth it?”

Opening his mouth to reply, Clint found he didn’t really have any words to describe the twisting, tangled mass of feelings when it came to Phil.  “I’ll think about it, okay?” he said, even though he knew it was mostly out of his hands.  He had kissed Phil, after all.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Rising to her feet, Natasha left the room, closing the door softly behind her, and Clint let out a deep breath.  He pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his bag, and pulled on his favourite worn hoodie over the top, needing the comfort.  Following his nose to the kitchen, he found Phil standing next to the sink, pouring coffee into three cups.  After his own shower, Phil had pulled on sweat pants and his own grey hoodie, and he looked strangely adorable.  Clint smiled.

“Coffee?” Phil asked without turning around.

“You know the answer to that is always yes, Phil,” Clint replied.

Turning around with his own smile, Phil nodded and handed Clint a mug.  “I do,” he agreed.

Phil leaned against the counter, the hoodie pulling across his broad shoulders.  He looked soft and approachable in a way Phil never did in his suit, although that might also have to do with the relaxed hint of a smile on his face.  “So,” Clint said, taking a sip of his coffee in an attempt to distract himself.  “How long are we hiding out?”

“Just a little while, I think, but I wouldn’t worry,” Phil said.  He nodded towards where Natasha was camped out on the couch in a pile of blankets.  “Natasha has plans for you.”

Clint raised both eyebrows.  Pasting a smirk on his face, Clint sauntered over to the couch.  “What are your instructions, O Great One?” he asked.

Natasha glared, but her lips were twitching the way the always did.  She might have been the Black Widow to the rest of the world, but to Clint, she’d always be his slightly dorky sister.  The woman who laughed at his jokes and saved his ass more often than his pride liked.  “I thought we could start with Star Wars,” she said, holding up the original trilogy on DVD.  “Then, if you haven’t fallen asleep yet, we’ve got the Disney version of Robin Hood, and that ridiculous princess movie you like.”

Clint blinked, his eyes prickling, and tightened his grip on his coffee cup.  “Nat…”

“Clint,” Natasha countered, her eyes softening.  “It’s your birthday.  Let us do this.”  She waited for Clint’s nod, and smiled.  “It’s hardly the three days of culture and stuffing our faces with French pastries we had planned, but there’s always next year.”

Climbing onto the couch when Natasha lifted up a section of the blankets, Clint pulled her into a one-armed hug.  He pressed a kiss into her hair and let Natasha lean into him for a moment before pulling away.  His stomach grumbled before he could say anything else, and Natasha sniggered.  Clint scowled at her.  “Is there anything to eat?” he asked.

Natasha smirked.  “Jasper’s the one who stocked the kitchen, and Phil’s on food prep,” she said.  “Ask him if you want breakfast.”

Phil snorted from the kitchen, and Clint heard several cupboards opening and shutting.  “You’re going to have to be patient,” he called out.  “Not even I can make pancakes appear out of thin air.”

As Phil and Natasha bickered, Clint snuggled deeper into the blankets, warmth spreading through his chest.  The family he’d been born into might not have been the best, but the little one he’d made for himself was pretty awesome.  He was damn lucky.

True to Natasha’s prediction, Clint fell asleep on Phil’s shoulder just before King John got his comeuppance.  It was hard not to, full of pancakes, popcorn and the steaks Phil had made for dinner.  He blinked awake again sometime later, Phil’s hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Clint said, sitting upright and wiping at his mouth.  He’d been slumped across Phil’s chest, and Clint really hoped he hadn’t been drooling.

The room was dark around him, Natasha a warm presence on his other side and the DVD menu looping on the TV in front of the couch.  Outside the window, Paris was dark, giving an intimacy to their little apartment, like they were alone in a little bubble of their own.

“It’s fine, Clint,” Phil said, a fond smile on his face.  “I just thought you might want to wake up for this.”

When all Clint did was blink, Phil pointed at a nearby clock, his smile growing.  Even in the dim light, Clint could see the hands had just ticked past midnight.  “Happy birthday, Clint,” Phil said.

“Happy birthday,” Natasha echoed from his other side, leaning over to catch Clint in a bear hug.

“Thanks,” Clint rasped as Natasha squeezed him harder, laughing.

She kissed him messily on the cheek, before sliding gracefully to her feet.  “I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said.  “And in the morning, we’ll check in with Jasper and see if it’s safe to visit the Eiffel Tower.  He should have dealt with all the kidnappers by now.”

With a final wave, Natasha disappeared into the second of the apartment’s two bedrooms, shutting the door behind her.

Clint took a deep breath and let it out.  “I guess this is where we talk about the kiss, right?” he said, staring at the TV.  “You want to know why I did it?”

“Not just that, but yes,” Phil replied.  “Why did you kiss me?”

Swallowing, Clint turned his attention away from the TV.  He could brush off the kiss, call it an attempt as cover, a distraction, and Phil would accept it.  They’d go back to being friends and teammates, and Phil would probably never bring up the kiss again.  Except Clint didn’t _want_ that.  No matter how awkward things got, he didn’t want to pretend the kiss had never happened.  Looking into Phil’s eyes, Clint gave him an uncertain smile.  “I suppose I could say I kissed you because Natasha keeps telling me it makes everyone feel awkward, and you were looking really hot?”  he said, although his heart wasn’t really in it.  Instead, his heart was lodged somewhere in his throat.  “But, uh, that wouldn’t be the real reason.  I mean, it sort of is, but mostly I kissed you because I wanted to.  I always want to.  I’m still kind of amazed you haven’t realized most of this.”

Phil’s gaze softened, the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes.  “Then I suppose it’s only fair that I tell you that I kissed you back because I wanted to, too,” he said.

Clint smiled, suppressing the urge to duck his head.  “Really?”

“Very much,” Phil replied.  He cleared his throat, looking a little awkward.  “I’ve wanted too for a longer time than my pride wants me to admit, but… well, it didn’t seem fair to burden you with my feelings, not when you were settling into SHIELD, and…”

He trailed off, not finishing his thought, and Clint wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear it.  How Phil couldn’t see how amazing he was would always be a mystery to Clint.  He supposed that if they kept doing the kissing thing, he would have to get Phil to see what he saw every time Phil walked into a room.

“I’m nine years older than you, Clint,” Phil said, jumping topics slightly.

“Yes?  And?” Clint interrupted.  “Is that actually supposed to make one bit of difference to me?”  He held up a hand when Phil opened his mouth, presumably to protest.  “If you’re going to start listing things that you think are a problem, then you should know one thing:  I don’t care.  Nothing I have ever learned about you, Phil, has stopped me falling in love with you.”

A second later, Clint’s brain caught up to his words, and he blushed.  “I, um…”

Phil looked floored.  He gaped, his mouth forming silent words as he stared at Clint with wide blue eyes.  There was such a look of stunned hope in that gaze that Clint found it very hard to regret what he’d just said.  “It’s true, you know,” he said, gathering his courage.  “I’m in love with you.”

“Me, too,” Phil said in a rush.  He reached out to cup Clint’s cheek, his thumb stroking distractingly along Clint’s cheekbone.  “So much, Clint.”

A grin was splitting Clint’s face before he even finished processing the words.  “Yeah?” he said, leaning forward.

Phil nodded, but he stopped Clint from leaning in any more with a hand on his chest.  “You should probably know something else,” he said.

“Is it kinky?” Clint asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.  Phil was probably trying to be serious, but the bubbling giddiness whizzing through Clint’s stomach was making that difficult.

Phil shook his head, his gaze slightly reproachful.  Dragging Clint close, he leaned his forehead against Clint’s.  “You should be aware that I’m not sure I’m going to be able to let you go after this,” Phil said softly.  “As far as I’m concerned, Clint, you’re it for me.  The one person I want for the rest of my life.”

Clint swallowed because he’d never been anyone’s ‘one person’ before.  “That isn’t a bad thing, Phil,” he said.  He pulled back just enough to see Phil’s face, and let everything he felt for the wonderful man in front of him shine through his eyes.  “I _love_ you.  Why the hell would I be stupid enough to let you go?”

Sliding his hands up cup Phil’s face, Clint pulled him in for a gentle kiss and just let himself enjoy the feeling of being in Phil’s arms.  This was more than he’d ever imagined he could have, and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to let go for _anything_.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said, pulling away from Phil’s kisses just long enough to get the words out.  “I think I changed my mind about the Bahamas.  I want to come back to Paris instead.”

Phil smiled, stroking a thumb across Clint’s jaw.  “Whatever you want, Clint,” he said.  Then his eyes narrowed a fraction.  “Within reason.”

Clint laughed, happiness and love bubbling up in his chest again.  “Best birthday ever,” he said, and pulled Phil in for another kiss.

 

End

 


End file.
